


Sleepless

by jenni3penny



Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 16:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5709991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenni3penny/pseuds/jenni3penny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Office drinking and couch sleeping - drunken Gill is an endless temptation. "Maybe he'll dream something riotously dirty and maybe he'll just dream something innocently homey and domestic. The aches when he wakes are near exactly the same, either way."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless

They're celebrating the end of a case – rather, what they're celebrating is the fact that the end of this case is the beginning of a full on contract, a government clientele that doesn't make his skin crawl, and a steady paycheck that'll keep Foster's smile up around her ears at least once every few months.

Well, rather... that's what she's celebrating.

He's celebrating the chance to see her so legitimately happy, laughing and teasing and, hell, the woman's actually a little giddy.

She's bein' right silly and adorably so, half buzzed on the upper shelf of his liquor cabinet and fueled by Torres' strangely intent interest in every little thing between them Seems Ria's intentionally paced herself this time, though. Learned her lesson about after hours nips with one Gillian Foster, apparently. He doesn't doubt that finding herself face down on one of his couches and alone in the spacious office the last time taught her a strong lesson about not under-estimating her bosses and their stamina in regards to liquor and/or each other.

But then, the young one's got the curiosity of an especially stupid cat when it comes to categories Foster, Lightman, and anything Pre-Firm. So, yeah, she's intentionally taking small little sips off the tumbler that's warming in her hand. In fact, if he thinks on it, Ria's always been especially curious about Foster. And him in regards to her too. A bit like a precocious kid askin' about the first time their parents met – the sordid details are not necessary nor desired, but the wheres and hows just _need_ to be known. She's got Gill half into a story about the time he barged into her office while she was in the middle of a session with a very angry and bird-like looking woman. Her client had got in a quick snit about it and he'd done a little song and dance with his words and mouth and by the time the SecDef's Senior Administrative Assistant had been shown the door he was kissing the back of her hand like a prince.

He merely shrugs into the interested way Ria grins over him, brow arched high as though she's questioning the veracity of the story. “Woman _was_ a bit hawkish, Gill. And peckish.”

“You had her absolutely smitten somewhere between the couch and the door.”

He winks at her reflexively, affectionately and lazily, holds the tipped way she's smiling at him while he utterly ignores the passing glance Torres is sending back and forth between them. After a quiet moment he shifts forward to pour himself another round, fills his glass to the brim and the bottle is near empty as he slides it back across the table in her direction. Ria makes a little fuss about excusing herself the the restroom and he finds himself watching Gillian as she watches the younger woman leave from between the two of them.

It's not until she's pouring the last finger of liquor into her own glass that he relaxes into his chair. “I know y'think I'm a gentleman – that I won't take advantage while you're - ”

“You won't,” she cleanly interrupts as she sets the empty bottle to the table and leans back into couch cushions.

“No, but seems I'm drunker than you this time, love.” He takes a long swallow, bites his jaw down as it burns into his lungs and flares a heat there that's awfully similar to the one she can sometimes bring on him, but nowhere as sweet. “So, who's in charge of propriety now?”

“Why do you think I haven't called Ria a ride home?” Gillian just cradles her glass on her knee, lets her shoulders show how blasé she is about the situation.

“She'll have t'go at some point.” That's when he meets her eyes and finds them to be darker than he expects, slate and grayer than blue in the low lighting of his office. The cool color of her eyes is in direct opposition to the obvious heat in the way she's studying him. Because she's not at all concerned about letting him see her slope a long look down the slumped way he's stretched from the chair to the table. “Then whatever'll we do? Sit on our hands in opposite corners?”

They already are, in a way. Metaphorically speaking. He's got his foot wedged up against the coffee table to keep himself blocked and stalled still, his glass held against his abdomen as his body sinks lower slouched in the chair. And he makes the movement on purpose, maybe. Shifts his hips into her unapologetic watching and refuses the smile that wants over his lips as she arches one brow and just lets her lashes slowly blink over how obvious she is in her perusal. She's intentionally curled herself back into the opposite end of the couch, though. Her legs are curled up so that he's got a glorious view of her calves and elegant ankles but, Christ, she's got everything drawn up into herself even as her eyes glitter at him over top the sip of scotch she's taking.

It's glossy on her bottom lip as she sucks the taste into her mouth. “I can't drive home like this, Cal.”

“Can't drive y'home like this, love.” There's apology in his tone but he's smart enough to know that neither of them should be driving the other anywhere.

“We'll share a cab.”

“Because that's safe and proper,” he chuckles freely into the lip of the glass, feeling his smile reach his eyes without permission as he lets the laughter fall into the drink. “The two of us soused and snug in a back seat, all hands and no dignity.”

“With an audience,” she points out with a dry tone. “It's not like we'd be alone.”

Supposedly, that's meant as a deterrent. However, he finds it more a brilliant tease and an exceptional idea – she's so smart sometimes, his Gill. The idea of being able to kiss and lick and love his way down her throat with a stranger in the front seat, knowin' _exactly_ where his hands might be? Having the ability and the permission to publicly claim every bit of her as his own? The smirk that lifts one side her mouth before she licks at leftover scotch says she's matched the thought that's flickered through his brain and something in her finds it equally appealing.

_Good Girl_ , yeah, his pale arse.

She's 'Expert Level Trouble', this one.

She always has been, really. And hasn't he long known it?

“You like that idea,” he accuses intently as he watches her lift her jaw, her eyes swelling darker. “Y'do, don'tcha?”

“You obviously do,” she answers knowingly. “I saw that.”

He grins shamelessly, gives her an equally unembarrassed shrug, “Y'know I'm a fan of any theory that features me makin' my way down the front of you.”

“Who said anything about - ”

“I've an exceptional imagination. And don't act as though you don't too, Foster.” His grin is an obvious challenge and she just patiently gives in, doesn't try arguing when he's this intensely mischievous.

She gives him a playful pout in response, obvious teasing and meant to draw him out. “You wouldn't respect me in the morning.”

“I'd respect'n cherish you all the night long, Gill.” Now, that's come out before he meant it (and with a load of lusting in it), before he's considered the varied reactions it might garner. She slims him a decadent looking smile and he's not entirely sure what her reaction is - but it's positive enough. Because it makes her take another sip that she can lick against her lips as she nods once into unconscious agreement.

She'll kill something in him someday.

Just by the way she sometimes looks at him when she's lost the filter on her features.

“Technically it's already morning, darling.”

“So the discussion is moot, really,” she murmurs over her glass.

“Not at all.” Cal counters, warmly letting the words go between then. “Seems my little Foster's got a predilection for showin' off in front of taxi drivers. Nothin' moot about knowin' _that_ in advance.”

The words ' _my little Foster_ ', accent on her name and all... those were the words that had drawn a brightness to her eyes and not his leering or taunting. But, despite the adoration in her little half smile, he knows that in all actuality, he'll call cabs for the both of them. They'll see Torres off and leave her wondering all the way home as to what they're getting up to. And the reality is that he'll hug her up to keep her warm while they wait out a car for her. He'll hand her off to a stranger and probably sleep on his own office couch, head wrapped in the smell of her perfume on his throw pillows.

Maybe he'll dream something riotously dirty and maybe he'll just dream something innocently homey and domestic.

The aches when he wakes are near exactly the same, either way. Both visceral.

Been _there_ before, both ways.

Dreamed her doing their wash once (both their clothes, _and_ Emily's, his laundry room), throwin' worn socks at his head for somethin' he'd said.

It was the worst dream he'd had in years but only because he imagined it'd never actually happen and waking up from it was a simple stabbing reminder that he was a gutless shit.

He tends to masochistically replay the images in his head every time he's gotta make the switch from washer to dryer.

“It always ends the same.” Seems she's plodding along the same thought process he is and he has no doubt that the unconscious pout on her lips is a sweeter and more feminine match to the glowering he's surely making over his glass. “Going home alone.”

“Don't go home.” The suggestion is just another mutiny of his mouth, his brain no match to what he could possibly say before it catches up. “We'll share the couch. I'll be a gentleman.”

The look she gives him is lethal – but not necessarily because she's glaring or anything.

It's entirely a matter of him not being able to breathe properly when she's staring at him so intimately, so (dare he think it) longingly. “What if I don't want you to?”

Cal cocks his head at her, argues with his eyes before he sighs. “Y'do this time. Because y'don't wanna be drunk for it.”

“I don't want excuses,” she slurs a little, annoyance and frustration filling the addled spaces of her words as she very particularly sets the glass to the table, her movements stilted as though she's making sure of every little shift as she makes it. “I just want...”

She's drunker than he'd assumed, maybe.

Because she's straying on a path they've kept gated up for long stretches at a time.

They only ever take this walk, have this talk, when absolutely necessary, it seems.

“Truth,” he supplies with a slow softness.

Her eyes lift to his like he's finally said something to her that makes perfect sense, that fixes all their littlest problems and circumvents every issue that's ever kept them apart. “Yes.”

“Truth'll come.” It's said like a promise but he finds her staring at him with utter disbelief, her eyes scrunching in an adorably tetchy manner, lips pursed in annoyance. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe never,” she sulks over her glass and he realizes just by how petulant her voice has become that, yeah, he was severely incorrect as to who's swung farther drunk and who has sobered.

He is instantly clear headed and dry minded, watching her intently as she chews into her bottom lip and blinks away something that could almost be tears.

“You want truth, darling?”

“Yes.” It hisses between her teeth, slurs more than expected as she shakes her head away from the desperately purposeful way he's watching her. “It'd be nice, for once.”

“Look at me then,” Cal demands quietly, keeping his voice sure and tight and clean past any possible mumbling.

She watches him, quizzically at first, like she's questioning whether or not he's being serious.

Like she's waiting for him to play at teasing or taunting her.

Like she's just waiting for something, anything, to end the surprisingly silent moment.

It's when he can't stop a slow and low lidded smile, from his lips to his eyes – that's when she inhales sharply and blinks.

She bites her teeth into her lower lip and laughs a breathy sound through her nose, eyes closing after a moment of him watching her so intently that she's gone blushing.

“Cal.” His name comes off her like unlimited acceptance, her head shaking slightly in flushed humor before she smiles back unguardedly. “You want - ”

“More than anythin',” he admits honestly, no shift of his body or change in his features. He lets her watch the plain honesty on his face as he slowly exhales a certain relief. “More than just - ”

“Think I should probably head home.” Ria's interruption from the doorway doesn't startle him so much as annoy him because the girl's just proving, once again, that she has inexplicably shit timing.

He exhales again, watches Gillian just give him a secretive smile and especially considering she knows Ria can't see it from behind the lean of her shoulder.

Her eyes are bright up again, all glory, guts, and everything he loves seeing in her when she just lets go, lets loose, lets him _actually_ love her.

“Right. Call you a cab,” he offers as Gill watches him shift forward in the chair, her eyes taking in his movements studiously and a bit appreciatively. Cheeky thing, letting herself grab and eye-full as a smirk pretties her lips.

“I already called one.” Ria tells them both as he moves past Foster and catches against the way her fingers lift to tease against his. “Just in case. Probably woulda been fine but - ”

“Walk you out, then.” He squeezes Gill's fingers lightly and bites against smiling as the other hand waves toward the door, Ria's expectant but confused smile brightly evident as she waits him out.

 

* * *

 

 

“You're pretty sober for having killed half the bottle.” Torres tugs the tie on her jacket tighter against her hips, the cut of the smart fabric looking more like something Gillian would pull on over a well tailored and sleeveless dress. The Natural's been takin' notes on more than just deception detection lately, seems. Not that he finds any fault in it. Gill's more than a precise and professional and acceptable role model. He's happier than hell when he finds Emily lookin' for Gillian's advice on something. Frankly, Ria could do a hell of a lot worse when it came to professional mentors.

“And you been politely sippin' at the Kool-Aid, Torres,” he accuses just as lightly. “Learn anything exciting?”

“She's losing her patience.” The clumpy snow that's falling is glittering over her darker hair and she cocks him a supposedly wise glance and an arched brow. “With you.”

Well, _somebody_ gets especially sanctimonious and sagacious when pissed on _his_ liquor.

“Lost it years ago,” he snorts off, waves a hand between them before stuffing both fists into his pockets on the parking lot curb. “Foster's been runnin' on fumes with my antics for years. Even I know that. S'why I'm playin' nice with government contracts. Makes her happy. Gives her security.”

He can see her wheels turning in her head and that's one of her problems still, eh? He can always tell when she's got something to say and she's debating which way to play it. Which sort of annoys him more because he'd much rather she just said what was on her mind rather than debating tact and political correctness – but then that was why Foster was the better mentor when it came to social interaction. Still, she's a facial floodgate when she's thinkin' too much. It floods all out over her too pretty of a face and she tells the world, by way of expressive eyes, that she can't keep her judgments to herself. That she can't play it close for all that long.

That's something she still needs to learn, the ability to blank and con and connive.

The true ability to lie to anyone at any time.

“Not at all what I mean, Lightman. You know it too. ”

He smirks into the spit and grit of her tone but it's farther from a smile than usual, it's a bit darker than usual, actually. “And the other's none of your business, is it?”

“Can you just... clinical observation, okay? From an outside party?” Her jaw lifts as she tracks the cab she'd called, watching it as her head turns back in his direction.

“Think you'll tell me somethin' I don't already know?” Cal asks lazily, digging his hands deeper into his pockets as the chill tugs at his clothing and finds a way past fabric. “Eh, Natural?”

“She'll leave you. Not necessarily the Group, but you.” Ria turns toward him, back stepping toward the stalled cab as it waits for her. “She'll give up on the idea someday. Soon.”

He follows, watching her steps to be sure she doesn't slip as he reaches for the back door. handle “Listen, she doesn't need me muckin' up - ”

“You think she gives a damn that you're an emotional fuck up?” Her hands grip and stall the door open and she leans closer to him as she nods, her eyes glossy in the snow as she glares him a once over and shakes disappointment over him. “You think that makes her love you less? Have the two of you even met? _Jesus_ , you're made for each other.”

“Torres - ”

“No, just listen for once, okay?” Her cocksure attitude and lack of tact are clear as the slightly swaying way she leans into the open door, a little bit of booziness still weighing on her. “Make a move, Lightman. Because I'm losing my faith in your reputation as a man with extraordinarily huge brass balls, okay? And so is she.”

“She's drunk, case you haven't noticed.” Cal responds evenly, surprises himself by the level of patience that's keeping him curbed and controlled – probably has something to do with how drawling slow he still feels from the scotch. “And, from the sound of your mouth, so're you. So we'll let that accusation slide.”

“Man up and do it or let her move on.” Ria slacks back into the open framing of the car door, her shoulders dropping on a long sigh, as though she's finally said just exactly what she's been meaning to say for months now. “Because this is a really shitty way of being repeatedly cruel to someone you supposedly love.”

Happily relieved, she is. Now that she's given him a gut shot.

Yeah, and that's the end of it.

That's more than enough on the subject.

“Get in the car, Ria. Go home.”

She doesn't tell him 'good night' or 'goodbye' or anything so kind as she slumps into the back seat.

She only tells him, with a pointed glare as he slings the door shut behind her, that she's right and he knows it.

 

* * *

 

 

He isn't entirely sure if she thinks she's chilled cold or if she just wants more of him wrapped around her but he certainly doesn't argue either way, and especially when he's got Torres' accusations still bouncing around in his head. He lets her curl his arm farther around her front while her back snuggles deeper into his chest. His face is buried well enough into her hair that every inhalation his swamped with her heat and her smell and it's brewing something hot in his gut. Her nearness and innocently drunken cuddling is stirring tingles up from his lungs, down through his stomach, into his crotch and the backs of his thighs. He doesn't question himself an instant before prodding his knee against the back of hers, forcing her to shift her left knee higher and bridge up the hem of her skirt just so he can wedge his leg between hers.

One minute shift of his hips and he could manage to also wedge more than half an erection right into her backside... but he hasn't dared try it yet.

“You smell good,” she murmurs it near his fingertips, mumbles it actually. “S'comforting.”

He barely manages to swallow, rubs his nose against her ear. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mmmm.” Her agreement is fuzzy but giddy somehow, still all pleasure and amusement. “You always smell good. S'yummy.”

Well, 'yummy' is not a term he's ever necessarily considered her using in regards to him but, given her infatuation with food, he probably should've. And he's slightly stunned by the fact she'd so willingly give him that information while knowing he'll use that to tease her over and again. Gill's smart enough to guard herself no matter how drunk she is – and especially when he's the one in her personal space. They've spent a long decade of drunks being cautiously aware of the other person's presence and proximity so it's not like she'd loosen out that information without knowing the exact ramifications, even while there's still the taste of scotch on her breath.

So, hell with it, really... Nothin's gonna happen anyhow, they both know that – but at the very least he can let her know exactly how much he's enjoying this particular moment. Especially considering she's leaving herself so intentionally open, being vulnerable. He makes the shift, turns his hips farther into hers and drives his erection evenly into the back of her, his arms snugging her tightly into him to keep them balanced close on the couch.

The way she sinks back has him letting a groan out into the back of her head. “Always nice t'meet with your approval, Gillian.”

She makes a moaning low in her throat but embarrassingly buries it into the palm of his hand, her cheeks flushed and warm as she cradles her face into his palm and boldly presses back into him. “Cal?”

“What, darling?”

“I heartily approve.”

Drunken Foster's a sensual and giddy and enticing thing – a temptation with laughing eyes and a sweet smile and curves that he could very, _very_ , slowly measure. With his tongue.

Always has been a looming seduction to him. She's so evidently her sillier and lovable self when she's had a bit to drink, so brazenly unconcerned by all the littlest bits of life that otherwise pull nagging at her. She's not irresponsible, by any means. She is, however, more carefree, more relaxed, more _Gill_ , and just... _more_.

So he can't help the chuckle he leaves in her hair, lets it tumble into the dry silkiness and just rubs his face deeper into that warmth. “Y'do more t'me than that. Trust me.”

“More in a physical sense or in a... a metaphorical - ”

“Both, most definitely,” he smiles out, bemused by how much trouble she's having getting the more multi-syllabic words out even as she very obviously takes measure of more than just his affection. “I'll show you when we're sober, eh?”

She laughs, the breath of it falling into his palm even as the sound rings happily out through his office. _Fuck_ , and it's an inviting sound. She laughs and his entire body, the whole of himself, it just warms instantly. She laughs - and he can breathe again. He can't help himself from grinning into the sound either, that amused and pleasantly, intimately, personal sound. Making her laugh or smile or even just roll her eyes, it's always been his favorite bit of each day.

“Oh, tha's funny, huh?” he demands, using his palm to turn her head up to look at him.

She grins, blatantly and without censure, “Gonna take me out behind the bleachers with a tape measure, Lightman?”

“Oi.” He pinches at her jaw, holds her still as he takes a leisurely look over her mouth. “Take ya wherever y'like. Whenever. However.”

There's arousal in the slimming of her bright eyes, a promising wealth of agreement in the way she skims her tongue against her lips and lifts her head into his hand on her face. “Now?”

It's as though she's taken his promise to be a gentlemen and decided it's a challenge, something she's got to utterly destroy. And it's workin'.

Cal arches her a wry glance, head cocking slightly over her as he scrutinizes how intently she's watching his face for a reaction. “Not now, love, no. Had this talk already, haven't we?”

“Good,” she nods perfunctorily, snuggles deeper into the couch cushions and manages to (no doubt, intentionally) rub her hip against his crotch. “Cause m'very sleepy. And I wanna savor it.”

So, it is her own private challenge then. And she's evidently winning at her own game. Because he can damn well feel his brain fizzle and melt out his ears as she angles, implies with her shifting that he's more than allowed to loop his leg up over hers. He lumps down a swallow when she lets his knee nudge just under the hem of her skirt and stall there. Doesn't doubt it's a visible reaction, either. Not when she just silkily smiles at him and her eyes flutter shut as she gently turns her face closer to his throat.

She fuckin' _does something_ to him (and she knows it) – and especially when so supposedly innocent in the way she hides her face along his neck.

She's flushed warm against him and he can feel half her curves invitingly open to his perusal, pressing into him in a way that means more than just drunkenly sharing a couch.

“You an' Em mean more t'me than anything, Gill.”

Not sure where the hell that weakly soft admission came from but it obviously pleases her, it's obviously more than enough to make her happy because she opens her mouth against his throat and he's suddenly enthralled by the skate of her teeth and tongue on his skin. Her hands are wrapped up in his shirt and they tug suddenly, jerk him closer in response to the confession.

“Emily and me?” she asks along his jaw, voice a hush on his skin.

He squeezes his eyes shut, the hand she's had pinned to the couch lifting to hold her still, fingers curving up the back of her head as he exhales. “Y'heard me, Gillian.”

She doesn't stop it with the kisses and the rub of her lips then they're damned.

Because while he's usually got miles of patience when it comes to adoring her, she's shredding them up at ridiculously high speeds. Knows that too, for sure.

“Emily and I?” she asks teasingly on his cheekbone and he snorts a dry laugh before drawing his head back, blinking over the wicked smirk on her face.

Mischievous little shit... she's gonna pay for this, and then some.

“Try t'be completely honest and all I get is silliness? That how it's gonna be?” he laughs it over her, can't _not_ laugh when she's messin' around so happily.

Her face gently drifts back into the side of his neck, a sigh puffing hotly past her lips and against his skin. “You like it when I'm silly.”

“Love when you're bein' silly,” Cal admits with a tone gentle enough that she only responds by tightening closer, his hand rising so that he can press along her hair. “S'very sexy.”

“Cal?”

Her tone is adorably muzzed enough that he smiles into breathing out an answer, “What?”

“We should do this again tomorrow.” She tips her head back again as she says it, the idea obviously sudden and seemingly brilliant to her as she looks up at him. A smile touches over her mouth as he nods silent agreement, his fingers shifting enough to touch on her cheek.

“Today is tomorrow, love.”

“You know what I mean.” Her eyes are flicked even brighter in argument and he's tangled up in trying to figure out how they can come so close to clear in the near darkness of his office. “But without the drinking or Ria.”

It's an honest smile that takes him over again, one that comes without warning and as a direct result to the fact that she's damn delightful and especially when she's letting him love up on her. “Naw, she's not really my type, either. Want you to myself, anyhow.”

“You do?”

He's legitimately surprised by the concern and self consciousness of her face, her features, her sudden stillness. Her fingers tuck into his shirt as she bites worriedly into the side of her cheek and Cal just blinks utter confusion. He's gobsmacked, entirely astounded by the realization that while she may know he adores her, she doesn't _know_ it deep into her lungs, in her bones.

She has to check to be sure.

“What I say earlier?” he asks as he traces on her forearm, keeping his eyes to hers.

“More than anything?” Cue the blushing. The fuckin' adorable blushing.

“And then some more,” he nods into lightly kissing on her lips, lifting his head up from how wordlessly surprised she seems by the tenderness of the movement.

She squints, bites at her lip again as she studies his lips, watches them dazedly. “You sure?”

“Don't lie to you, do I? Eh, darling?”

And, all at once, he's got plans for this woman.

Not just the salacious sort (though, oh, yeah, and some more).

He's gonna spend a whole hell of a lotta time showing her just how sure he is, all around.

“No.” Gill shakes her head slowly and her eyes instantly flutter closed as though the movement has disoriented her, her fingers catching up in his shirt again, “you don't.”

“Remember that tomorrow, huh? When you're hungover and y'blame me?”

“Well, who opened the first bottle? Huh?” she (supposedly) whispers back, the pitch of it louder than she means it to be and bringing a smirk to his lips as he watches her frown at herself, annoyed by the fact she's having trouble with one of his buttons.

“You did, Gill,” he tells her gently, hand rising to pop the button open so that her fingers can catch in the 'V' the fabric makes.

“Oh.” She blinks rapidly, suddenly realizing he's correct before she gives him a cute and sheepish smile, the shoulder that's pressed into his chest nudging at him. “Right. I forgot.”

He laughs instead of answering and she's obviously done speaking with him because she's already wedging her head up under his jaw and she clutches the fabric of his shirt tighter into her hand.

“M'tired, Cal” she explains, cuddling up closer into him and managing to unintentionally jam her knee well into his groin, drawing a grunt off him. “Sleepy.”

“Gillian?”

“Hmmm?” The sound is hummed up under his jaw and it's a proverbial nail in a coffin. Click of a lock. Turn of a fuckin' key.

She owns him. Outright. And done.

He squeezes against her thigh, half amazed that she doesn't give him a slap for doing so. “Got your knee in my crotch.”

A noise comes off her that tells him she doesn't plan to do anything to change that fact. “But I'm comfortable.”

“Wench.” She's giggling sleepily as he scuffs the hem of her skirt up a fraction and jerks her leg up over his, wedges his knee between her thighs and grunts as she wiggles lower and tighter into him. “Go t'sleep before I take advantage of you.”

She mutters something about making promises and he just grins, knowing that he's not getting a bit of rest. Not like this, not in this place. Doesn't much matter as she starts to fall asleep, even breathing and the smell of her perfume curled up around them both.

Sleep's a highly overrated thing, really.

And he's just waiting for tomorrow (with her) anyhow.


End file.
